


Watercoloured Love

by leviathaneren



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sad, Short, Sorry!, like really short, misuse of metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathaneren/pseuds/leviathaneren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He loved her; He loved her, so very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Erm this sucks. Sorry.

He painted her, sketched her; in all of the forms, types and genders. He painted her for all she was worth. He painted her as a house, as a field; he painted her as a mountain and as a sea. He only thought of her, and the mistake he's made. he painted her as tears and as a little girl.   
The critics all lover her, so she became his muse; soon all of his paintings had the same colour, shape and root.   
Finally, her painted her as the pure white of a cloud, the passionate red of a rose; as the blue of the sky and the pink of a blush. He made her an angel, he made her a demon; he made sure she was beautiful, even in the most grotesque ways.   
He drew her as the vibrant red of blood, as the shiny white of bone; as the pale of skin and like the pink of guts.   
He mourned and mourned, he made her a saint; and left voicemail after voicemail on her phone. He told her about his day, about the paintings that he's made; about how she's the one he has to thank. He told her he loved her, day after day, and told her he's sorry, forever and then.   
She never picks up, but he's sure she listens, and he hopes her tears are as much as his own.


	2. And as the colours bled out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An he thought of her, the smell of perfume staining his memories and making his mind feel drugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what. Sorry.

He remembers her, sometimes.   
He remembers her on the dead of night; when he's lying on his bed, cold and alone, wishing for her warm body next to her so he could cuddle it and she could scare away the nightmares and the frostbite that threatens to take him. Those times, exclusively, are the times he lets himself think about her freely.   
He thinks about her kisses; how her mouth was always sweet, warm and inviting, always tasting so good and always there for him whenever he was having a bad day.   
He thinks of her caresses, he remembers the way her hands always were so soft and expert; he remembers, having her touch him, always such a delicious and rich touch that left him gasping for more.   
He thinks of her eyes; such a beautiful grey colour, stormy and with hints of blue in them.   
He thinks about how cold they always were while looking at other people and how they seemed like steel being melted when she looked at him; he remembers them the day she left, how they weren't molten anymore and the warmth in then had left for what it seemed to be for forever, never ever coming back to him.   
He thinks of her voice. Such a beautiful sound that always calmed him down, no matter what, no matter how awful he felt and how deep in he was.   
He thinks of her body, of her skin; he remembers the colour of it, the taste, the smell; he remembers having it all for himself for whenever he wanted it and whenever the needed it.   
But most of all? most of all he thinks of her personality. Such fire always burning behind her silver orbs and beneath her flesh, how it seemed to give her a glow that nobody could compare to. She was always so warm and he alway told her so; he told her that it was because of the fire, that it was that what was making her skin scalding but without a fever. He thinks about the day, the way that fire and that fury was all directed at him, how the broken flames spat an licked at his insides as his whole world walked out the door of his apartment at two thirty am. He remembers, he really does, but what he wishes that most is that she remembers him just as good, just with the same melancholy that he does; he wishes with all of his heart that she lays awake, too, on the nights she's alone and thinks about him. About what it felt like to be on his arms, to see his dull, broken blue eyes gaze into her bright, grey ones.   
And as a watercolour painting left out in the rain, he can feel his heart melting and slipping away, his once vibrant colours blending and creating an ugly smear in the white canvas of his soul.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Watercoloured Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483689) by [sebasent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebasent/pseuds/sebasent)




End file.
